Guns and Knives
by Chojinbadger
Summary: Private Investigator Remus Lupin is called to look into a murder case...
1. Introductions

Guns and Knives 

Rating – PG-13, because of possible language

Setting – London, at no particular time. Trust me, you'll know what I mean.

Explanation – A small fic I wrote a while ago and never finished. Before I get flamed to death, I'll just point out that this is a spoof. It doesn't make sense when compared to the actual books by JK Rowling.

Disclaimer – I don't own any of the characters in this here fic. If I did, I'd be extremely rich, which I'm not.

Part One – Introductions

There's not much call for Private Investigators in this city. It's one of the reasons why I remember each client that comes to me asking for help. I guess I'm the best, really. I'm not boasting...I rarely do that...but it's the truth. The only other Private Investigators are either six feet (more like sixty feet) under, or about to be. So people come to me. Luckily, I am currently neither of the aforementioned, which makes my work so much easier. Whether it is to track down a missing person, or work as a double agent for dubious organisations, I'm your man. And it's men I usually work for. That's why I remember _her _so distinctly. But it's not as though the case was a long time ago. Fairly recently, it was really. I usually give myself a month to recover after especially dangerous cases, but I don't think I'll ever get over everything that happened as a result of her walking into my office that day. And whether I regret or revel in memory of that day, I'm still not sure.

I remember everything about that day. I was sitting in my office, my black shoes resting on the desk. Next to my feet, there was my collection of Sherlock Holmes – _A Scandal in Bohemia, The Case of Identity _and _The Giant Rat of Sumatra. _In the corner of the room was a dying – if not already dead – plant that drooped its brown leaves almost to the floor. In my hands, I held the newspaper, scanning the headlines for interesting news. You never know what you might pick up. Sadly today, the only thing that caught my eye was a column advertising a sale at Penny's – the local lingerie shop. I resolved never to go to a lingerie shop unless the woman of my dreams accompanied me, because otherwise fat woman in scarce underwear would attack me.

At that precise minute, when I was amusing myself with fantasies of being attacked by fat women and being saved by Wonder Woman, a woman actually walked into my office.

I don't quite know if walked was the right word. Glided was more like it. She had the air of one who has recently graduated from Swiss finishing school. She was beautiful. Her hair was blood-coloured, and the lipstick she wore matched it. I wondered, at first, whether I had wandered off into Themyscarra.

"Excuse me," she asked coldly. "But I'm looking for Mr Remus J. Lupin..."

My heart did a flip. She was looking for me! I am ashamed to admit that at this point I got lost in her appearance. She wore a low-fronted black dress, with a black fur coat that she draped over her arm. This surprised me, as due to my lack of funding, I have no central heating. Emeralds adorned her neck, and she must have realized that they matched her eyes so perfectly. She raised an eyebrow to look at me inquisitively and I realised I hadn't answered her yet. I stood up.

"I'm sorry, young lady. Remus Lupin at your service."

She inspected me, clearly unimpressed.

"Are you sure? You're not what I expected."

I laughed to myself. What had she expected? An old man in a tweed jacket, maybe? I might be a fan of Sherlock Holmes, but I certainly don't fancy his style. I decided to ignore her comment.

"The gold letters on my door inform me that yes – I am Remus Lupin. So anyway, what's a beautiful woman like you doing in a dangerous town like this?" I asked, hoping my voice sounded suave and sexy. The woman still looked like she'd rather eat a poisonous cactus rather than trust me, however she sat down on the corner of my desk.

"My name is Lily Evans. I think my father was – "

And here I zoned out. Something had caught my attention. Evans...where had I heard that name before? Suddenly, the answer hit me like a runaway train. Lord Adlai Evans...yes...he had been part of the Government for a long time. I remembered a tall man with white-blonde hair and cold blue eyes. He had retired ten years ago looking no older than the day he had joined Parliament, or so the papers told me. But you can never trust the tabloids. I once read my own obituaries. Apparently, I've been stampeded by rampaging elephants on a trip to Zimbabwe with my wife and two daughters. The rampaging elephants seem vaguely familiar but the wife and two daughters are completely new to me.

Yet again, Ms Evans was looking at me peculiarly. I looked up at her.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" I asked.

She sighed and rolled her eyes.

"I think my father was murdered," she said in exasperated tones.

"Oh," I answered. I'd heard this story many times over. "Why do you think that?"

She sighed again, and this time I think she was just doing it to be dramatic.

"He was found dead in his bed at ten o' clock on Monday night. After doing an autopsy, they found poison in his arteries. But that's all they could find. The police won't do anything about it. They say that the case is closed because they have no evidence, but I know who did it!" she said urgently.

It was my turn to raise an eyebrow, and I did it to the best of my abilities.

"Then tell that to the police," I answered cynically.

She shook her head.

"I can't. They're too scared to react. That's why I came to you..."

"And what do you expect me to do?"

"The police demand proof before they will arrest him. I need you to get that proof. You can do that...can't you?"

I surveyed her expression. It was no longer dislike, it was distress. She really needed my help.

"Who is it?" I asked simply.

"A very evil man. You might have heard of him. His name is...Sirius Black..." she said quietly.

I almost fell off my chair. Instead of that, my foot slipped, and I ended up banging my elbow on the desk.

"You're kidding," I announced, rubbing my elbow. "No wonder the police are too scared. No one's going to challenge Sirius Black! And I'm not going to be the first. Christ! I quite like my head where it is thanks, and not at the bottom of the Thames!"

She bowed her head, and I thought she was livid with rage at my outburst, but when she looked at me again, her eyes were full of tears.

"Please...I beg of you...I really need your help! I can't go to anyone else...please..." she implored to me.

I am a complete and utter fool for women. If they're pretty, and they want a favour, I'm first in line. If she'd asked me to jump off a cliff, I would have rented lead shoes. If she'd told me to kill someone, I'd have hired the mortician and paid for the funerals.

But I really liked this woman. And if I wanted her to like me too...I'd have to say something funny. I smiled at her.

"What's in it for me?"

Ok, so it wasn't the quip of the year, but it got me somewhere.

Suddenly her tears disappeared (and I suspect they were of the crocodile variety anyway) and she flashed me a roguish smile.

"Two hundred pounds a day, plus expenses," she told me.

I shook my head.

"Nuh-uh, lady. I'm the only Private Investigator in this hellhole of a city. If you want me that bad, you're going to have to cough up a bit more than two hundred."

She looked rather taken aback, but recovered quick enough.

"Did I say two hundred? I meant two thousand," she said innocently. "Plus...if there's anything else I can do for you..." she added, batting her eyelashes.

Well, that wasn't expected. I nodded.

"So...for two grand, I go to Sirius Black's place, find out all I can by getting close to him, get some evidence, bring it back and if everything adds up, he's behind bars and I've got a huge sum of money in my hands. Sounds good to me..."

Ms Evans smiled at me.

"Good. I'm glad you agree, Mr Lupin. When can you start?"

I sat down and thumbed through my date-book. The date was Wednesday. I had dinner with myself tonight, and then tomorrow I had a special conference meeting with myself, and then in the evening I was playing golf with myself – and I'd be very angry with myself if I had to cancel on myself again.

"Friday," I told her simply. She beamed at me.

"Good. Come to my estate at eleven in the morning. We can sort things out there..." she pulled some paper out of her pocket and proceeded to note down her address with a black and gold fountain calligraphy pen. Her handwriting was very loopy. It reminded me of Elizabeth I's writing. When she was done, she folded the paper and put it on the desk.

"Just come up to the house. My butler will give you the details," she informed me. She bent over so that she was inches from my face. She was fixing me with a stare I couldn't hold. I averted my eyes downwards. Big mistake. I know I must have gone rather red, because she giggled. I couldn't help but inhale her perfume. It smelt of magnolia. She lifted her fingers to the back of her neck and undid the clasp of her emerald necklace. Taking it delicately from her neck, she pressed it into my hand. She put her finger under my chin so that I looked at her, and she ran her slim fingers through my hair.

"And don't be late, ok?"

With that, she pulled away, standing up. She stalked over to the door and turned back one more time to look at me.

"Goodbye, Remus J. Lupin."

And she left.


	2. An Invitation to Disaster

Guns and Knives

Rating – PG-13, because of possible language and violence later on

Setting – London, at no particular time. Trust me, you'll know what I mean.

Explanation – A small fic I wrote a while ago and never finished. Before I get flamed to death, I'll just point out that this is a spoof. It doesn't make sense when compared to the actual books by JK Rowling.

Disclaimer – I don't own any of the characters in this here fic. If I did, I'd be extremely rich, which I'm not.

Part Two – An Invitation to Disaster

I opened a drawer of my desk and dropped the necklace into it. Then I put my forehead to the shiny polished wood of my desk. It smelt like something you would be horrified to find in a dump, but I didn't care. The smell helped me think. And how I thought! My brain is still aching from all the thinking I did. I'm rather more of a doer than a thinker. I pondered and I considered and I mused over things, and I mulled over things, and I contemplated.

Then I gave up and picked up my coat from the floor and walked out of my office, locking the door behind me.

I strode down the hall and down the three flights of uneven steps until I reached the ground floor landing. As usual, Mrs Weasley, the landlady, was sweeping the floor.

"Good evening Mr Lupin," she greeted me casually.

I nodded at her, and exited the building. Once outside, the cold breeze that littered autumn nights chose to whip around my ears, causing them to go numb. And I can inform you now, if you didn't already know – having numb ears isn't the most pleasing of experiences. I wasn't quite sure where I was intending to go when I started to walk along the dirty pavement, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't where I turned up...

I looked up at the broken-down hotel, taking in the smashed windows, the sign with no letters, and the wrecked piping, and smiled to myself. Only six months ago this place had been the centre of social activity. But like every other venue of interest to the public, it had taken a downfall as rapidly as it had arisen. It was a hotel / nightclub / pub that went by the name of Hogwarts. I think it was meant to sound business-like and professional. Or perhaps just strange.

I climbed up the cracked steps warily, and knocked on the door. A panel slid across and I saw two eyes stare at me suspiciously. They were red-rimmed, so I guessed the owners of the eyes had been "on the ale" as my father used to say. The man seemed to recognise me, but nonetheless demanded, "Password."

"Fig," I answered confidently.

The person coughed.

"Yeah, yeah. But don't spread it around!"

There was a lot of clanking, and I assumed that the man was unbolting the many locks on the door. Eventually, the large black door opened. I say opened, I meant that a space about the size of a fat mosquito was revealed. I sighed and pushed the door, entering the building.

In front of me was an old man. He had long white hair that he had tucked into his pockets, and a long pointed nose that looked like it could skewer someone.

"Albus!" I shook his hand vigorously and he glared at me.

"'Lo Remus," he said in his croaky voice.

He stood there, staring at me doubtfully. It was becoming evermore uncomfortable.

"So, erm, can I sit down?"

He shrugged and turned away, leading me to a dark room that used to contain a bar and sat down on a dingy moth-eaten barstool. He poured himself a glass of some unknown beverage and started to guzzle it down. It wasn't the most pleasant of things I had seen in my life. When he had finished the drink, he set the glass down with a bang on a pool table littered with cobwebs. The alcohol was still hanging in little droplets on his beard, making him appear greasier than he was already.

"So, what's going on? Why do you have to bother me now, you good-for-nothing ingrate?" Dumbledore asked me. I was not at all offended by his blunt and abusive question. Insults were casual compliments to him. It made him all the more interesting to me. I guess I was, and still am, the only one who thinks so.

I grinned at him.

"I've got a new client," I announced.

Dumbledore coughed. Actually, it would be more correct to say Dumbledore hacked up a fur ball, because that is what it sounded like. He looked at me with his eyes crossed. I think he either didn't believe me, or was trying to see what two of me looked like. Either way, he got bored of it eventually and looked at me, bushy eyebrows raised.

"Who, a dust molecule? No one's stupid enough to come to you. I'm sure even the dust molecules choose better..."

For a drunken wreck of a man, he knew an awful lot about dust molecules.

"No, it's Lord Evans's daughter," I replied smugly.

Dumbledore looked as though he was sucking a lemon.

"Don't lie, boy. It makes you uglier," he retorted.

I guessed he had done an awful lot of lying in his life...

"I'm not lying!" I protested. "She's really a new client of mine! And she is hot as hell..."

Dumbledore shook his head, spraying little flecks of alcohol everywhere. I ducked, and managed to avoid the disgusting shower.

"Never love a client. Especially when it is a woman."

Well, I wasn't about to fall in love with the boring old blokes that I usually associated with.

"Too late for that, my friend. Anyway, she's paying me two grand a day! Can you imagine what I could do with that kind of money!?"

Dumbledore suddenly sat up. I think he believed me, because a dirty grin was spreading on his face.

"Well done, my lad. And now, you've come to split half of your earning with me? You're too kind...too kind..."

I smiled and stood up, making for the door.

"Sorry, not today. I'm just here to flaunt my good fortune. Goodbye, Albus!"

And with that, I set out into the street once more; considerably pleased with the look of revulsion I had etched onto the old man's face.

To my own dismay, I found that it was raining, and that I had no umbrella.

I reached the flat again, looking rather like something that had crawled out of the Pacific Ocean. Mrs Weasley bit her lip and clucked her tongue at me, but said nothing. This was clever of her. I didn't feel like arguing about anything, and especially not the state of my appearance.

I made my way slowly up the stairs, clutching a half-empty bottle of tequila to my side. I reached my flat, and fumbled for what seemed half an hour trying to find the keys in my pocket, when I realised that I didn't have to unlock the door. It wasn't locked. I pushed the door suspiciously and it swung open. I gasped. Everything was...well...everywhere. My desk was upside down, my mug of Incredibly Cold Coffee was now an Incredibly Murky Puddle on the floor, my dead plant was lying on the floor – soil spread about it like blood, my documents were thrown around the room, and the drawers of my desk were open. I rushed over to them, and confirmed what I had feared the moment I saw the state of my room. The necklace was gone.

The rest of the afternoon I spent tidying up my office. In truth, there wasn't really that much to do. The houseplant was beyond repair, so I carried it into the corridor outside. At the far end, about ten yards from my door, there was a large open window. Even though it was raining outside, this window would not close. I reckoned that even if violent hurricanes ravaged the flat, the window might blow off, but still wouldn't close. It gave me an idea. I hoisted the dead plant over my shoulder – spraying soil down my back – and neared the window. Looking out, I could see the alleyway beneath it quite easily. It was overgrown with vegetation. By vegetation, I mean junk that other people have thrown there – sofas for example – which have been claimed by foliage and now look like they belong in the jungle. Surely no one would notice if a dead houseplant joined it? Of course not. If there were sofas down there no one would care about a houseplant. I lifted it up to the window, and pushed it. It flew through the air; it's shrivelled leaves reaching up to the sky quite pathetically, before landing with a resounding _splat_ on a heap of compost.

Moments later I found myself leaning out of the window, profanities being yelled at me by angry tramps that I had mistaken for the compost. They seemed not to be extremely appreciative of being covered in soil. I found this very hard to understand, as they had, in fact, been lying in something that seemed to smell of really foul eggs. Personally, I would choose the soil. With one last meaningful gesture, the tramps grunted and rolled over, reverting back to their drug-intoxicated siestas. I took this to mean I was dismissed, and I turned back to my apartment. When I got back in, there was a note on the coffee table that I was sure had not been there before. It was in strange scrawled writing, and looked like it had been done by a three year old, in a hurry, on a bus, on a road full of potholes. It read –

Lupin –

Be at 12 Grimmauld Place at 8pm tonight. Bring no one. Tell no one.

Ask for Sirius Black.

I let the note drop to the floor. It suddenly felt very cold in my small apartment. Sirius Black wanted to see me. But...why? Last time I checked, he wasn't on my list of people I owe money, or my list of mortal enemies. Maybe it had something to do with Miss Evans. It was the only reasonable explanation I could think of. Not that I was in the mood to think of reasonable explanations though. I mean – I'd just had my flat broken into and broken up, been yelled at by tramps, and found out that the Head of the London Crime Organisation (or LCO) wanted to see me. That Evans woman's necklace was missing as well – just to add another nice big burden on top of my already backbreaking load. This really was not turning out to be a good day.


	3. Apprehension

Guns and Knives

Rating – PG-13, because of possible language

Setting – London, at no particular time. Trust me, you'll know what I mean.

Explanation – A small fic I wrote a while ago and never finished. Before I get flamed to death, I'll just point out that this is a spoof. It doesn't make sense when compared to the actual books by JK Rowling.

Disclaimer – I don't own any of the characters in this here fic. If I did, I'd be extremely rich, which I'm not.

Part Three - Apprehension

By the time seven o' clock rolled around, I felt as though I had bitten my nails down to my knuckles. Where was Grimmauld Place? What would I wear? My grandmother told me once to always wear clean underwear – just in case I got killed. And no one wants to be buried in dirty boxer shorts. However, I didn't think that Black would be impressed if I turned up in just underwear. He probably wouldn't even get to see me, once I thought about it, because pneumonia would kill me in the street if I stepped outside in less than three layers of clothing.

Eventually I decided on a pair of black trousers and a white collared shirt. Pulling my black overcoat over it, and I looked more like a gentleman out for a leisurely evening, and less like an underpaid, overworked private detective.

I set off at half eight, double locking my apartment. I didn't feel like welcoming another break-in. Before I left, however, I grabbed a bottle of whiskey. My beverage cupboard was fortunately untouched, and I was thirsty. Descending the long and wonky staircase, I began to worry. I didn't know where this Grimmauld Place was – let alone Number Twelve.

When I got downstairs, Mrs Weasley wasn't there. I began to think that maybe my evening was finally perking up. In the state I was in, I would more than likely have hit her over the head with the whiskey bottle.

I stepped outside into the street, and looked around. It was already dark, and I could only see a few stars due to the abundant light pollution that flooded the night sky. I held the whiskey to my lips and felt the liquid burn it's way down my throat. I don't particularly like drinking – it's just a consolation in stressful situations, and it always has been.

I tucked the bottle into my pocket and set off. I didn't know where on earth I was going, and I couldn't rely on my feet like I had earlier that day. My head was swimming with so many thoughts, I felt like a one-man aquarium.

Where was I going? Why hadn't the person who left the note given me directions? Which son-of-a-bitch stole the necklace and trashed my apartment? Why hadn't somebody stopped them?

That last thought made me realise something I should have done before. Mrs Weasley had been cleaning that hall all day. Why didn't she stop strangers from entering the flats and going upstairs? And why didn't she mention it to me afterwards? It was a mystery. I resolved to ask her about it when, and if, I returned.

By quarter to eight, I had given up. Prowling around the streets hoping for convenient street signs had proven a rather pointless exercise. I sat on an old park bench, the wind trailing the leaves around my feet. It was getting rather cold, and there was nobody around. This, of course, did not surprise me. No one in their right mind would set out onto the streets later than nightfall in this area. Except me, of course. But as I was the only one, nobody would see me and classify me as clinically insane. It was as straightforward as that.

The wind began to pick up, and I found myself wishing for a hat to put on, as my ears were going numb again. Suddenly, something wet and rectangular hit me square in the face (no pun intended). Grumbling angrily, I peeled it off my nose and scanned it. It seemed to be a leaflet of some sort. It was soggy – probably from being discarded in a gutter – and didn't smell too good. It was a dark blue, and had the words 'Thou art cordially invited to the LCO convention. This message being from the Highest Order. Be-eth there, or be-eth square' printed on it. I turned it over, and a map stared up at me from the wet paper. It showed the whole of the area, from the outskirts of London, to the centre, and then merely brushing the Northern Quarter. I saw the road which my apartment was situated, and I traced all the roads that had taken me to the park. Suddenly, a two word street name caught my attention.

Grimmauld Place. I had found it.

There was no way that this leaflet came my way by coincidence.

When I approached the huge estate twenty minutes later, two large and burly security officers that towered above me in dark tuxedos, equally dark glasses, and menacing glares confronted me.

"Uh...hi..." I said uncertainly, raising an eyebrow and hoping that they wouldn't decide to try and turn me into a human cannonball and light my shoelaces.

"Name," one demanded in a rumbling voice.

"Lupin," I answered.

"Business?"

I had to think for a minute. I'd have to be pretty stupid to give out my profession to what I presumed to be part of the security staff for the LCO. So I smiled convincingly.

"I'm a representative from Leicester," I began, naming another area close to London. "I've come to do a deal with Black."

The two men glanced at each other momentarily, apparently mystified. They both looked about as clever as slugs with sunglasses on, so I kept my cynical expression on, and folded my arms, hoping to stare them out.

"I...didn't know Leicester had a CO," the larger security guard said slowly and thickly.

Suddenly, the door behind them creaked open, but I could see nothing beyond there. Just darkness. However, a silky voice floated out of the abyss.

"Crabbe, Goyle, let our friend from Leicester in. I've been _expecting _him..."  
The word 'expecting' had been spoken with uncalled for enthusiasm that sent a chill down my spine. The burly bouncers – identified by the bodiless voice as Crabbe and Goyle stepped aside.


End file.
